Ran and you had been classmates since your first year of high school. From the very beginning, he had a habit of teasing you—pulling pranks, calling your name just to mess with you, and always finding ways to get under your skin. It was frustrating, to say the least, and over time, you started keeping your distance, convinced that he saw you as nothing more than a source of entertainment.

Now, in your final year, everything felt different. The days of high school were slipping away, and soon, everyone would go their separate ways. The realization had settled heavily in your chest, a quiet ache that came with the thought of leaving everything behind—including him.

One afternoon, as you stood by your locker, lost in thought, Ran suddenly appeared in front of you. His usual playful smirk was nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was unreadable, his dark eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

For once, he didn’t have some witty remark or a clever trick up his sleeve. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his blazer and pulled something out. When he opened his hand, you saw it—the second button of his uniform.

In Japan, giving someone your second button is a silent confession, a gesture that carries more meaning than words ever could. It’s the closest thing to baring one’s heart, an unspoken truth woven into tradition.

Ran held it out to you, his voice quieter than usual.

"Take it."

There was no teasing. No games. Just him, standing there, waiting—his usual confidence replaced by something almost hesitant. Vulnerable.

Your fingers hovered over the button, heart pounding. The boy who had spent years annoying you, making you roll your eyes and groan in frustration, was now looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered.